


Skin

by Mercury Starlight (WoolandWater)



Category: The Young Ones (TV 1982)
Genre: Child Abuse, First Kiss, Foster Care, M/M, Pre-Series, childhood crush, childhood fic, domestic abuse, foregone conclusion, love & mobsters verse, underage (no sex) (just covering my bases here)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5106212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoolandWater/pseuds/Mercury%20Starlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He'd known he was bisexual since he was twelve, when his first kiss that mattered was with a handsome upperclassman who later denied Vyvyan's existence and won himself a scalp full of gravel he was probably still picking out of his skull.</em>~Funny (Love & Mobsters)</p>
<p>Twelve-year-old Vyvyan has just transferred foster homes, and he doesn't like what he sees. But he might have found a reason to stick around.</p>
<p>The story of Vyvyan's first kiss that mattered, and the worst foster parent he ever had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how much of a schedule this story will keep to, but I'll try not to leave you hanging for long. I've got the beginning and the ending finished, it's just that damn middle bit that's giving me trouble.
> 
> Even though I've already labeled it with the graphic violence and child abuse tags, I want to reiterate: this story comes with a trigger warning for child abuse. It's pretty rough.
> 
> This fic has been author-edited for typos and grammar, but has NOT been beta'd!

_Vyvyan closed the door behind him and slinked into the night. If he had to sit through one more lecture on the hardworking, god-fearing backbone of the British Empire he was going to burn the bloody house down. The Pattersons were nice enough people, he supposed, and they'd never once mistreated him (other than Mrs. Patterson's insistence that his bedroom door stay open at all times so as to avoid, as she put it, "The sins of a boy of a certain age." He found that one particularly ridiculous - he'd just wank in the bathroom instead). But living under their rule was insufferably stifling. He ran his hand through what hair he had - bloody choirboy haircut. He'd been trying to grow it out, but Roger Patterson considered long hair a sin second only to voting Labour Party. As far as he was concerned, the length of ones hair was proportionally linked to one's level of socialism - male hair which touched one's shoulders was clearly the last step prior to full-blown Marxism._

_Fuck the Pattersons, he'd do better on his own. He had done before, he would do again. He hiked the pack of his meager belongings higher on his back and headed off towards freedom._

*****

_Three days on the street. He'd found a bakery, perfect fodder for plucking day-old bread out of the bin out back. Unfortunately that seemed to be the conclusion of a large clutch of established street kids. They'd run him off at first, until he'd made their leader say uncle and insisted on being paid his share. Now he was one of the gang, lifting things from corner shops and squatting in an abandoned building. He hated all of them - they were slow and stupid and he had nothing to say to any of them - but that really wasn't much different from being at school. His fight with the leader had earned him a broken finger and a nasty cut on his arm along with his bread. It smarted like hell, but he tried to ignore it as he dove into the bin to get at a perfectly good sandwich, discarded for reasons unknown._

_It looked like rain - better hope the roof in that shithole where he was sleeping didn't leak._

*****

_Nearly two weeks on the street. His hair was growing out, that was something at least - it was nearly past his ears now, fringe hanging shaggily over his eyes. That cut on his arm was infected, the flesh around it swollen and red, leaning toward purple. He was tired all the time and he was certain he had a fever. He had to get off the street before the infection started to spread. He knew they did that, it was on the hospital dramas on telly all the time._

_Someday he would become a doctor, and he'd never have to go to school or wear a tie or get his hair cut by stupid Tory bastards or anything, because he'd know how to heal his own wounds. He'd make his own medicine and sell it to the other street blokes and save the day all the time. He'd be a hero of the streets and everyone would respect him._

_For now, better to find a pig to break into a car in front of - that should do the trick. Maybe he'd be lucky this time and end up landed in an orphanage, where at least people would leave him alone._

*****

_No such luck on the orphanage. He hugged his newly-stitched and bandaged arm to his chest as the social worker led him to the new house. The door was a bright, deep, cheery blue, surrounded by honeysuckle and hanging vines. He stared at it, unaware that for the rest of his life, long after his adult mind had severed all context from the image, that door would return to him in flashes…and send chills down his spine._

*****

The social worker knocked on the door, and a woman answered. Young-ish, but with a somewhat wearied face. She had a look in her eyes Vyvyan caught immediately - the tired, fearful gaze and tentative smile of a woman who'd grown accustomed to living with a tyrant.

Wonderful. He started scoping out escape routes before he even got through the door.

"Mrs. Lawson?" The social worker said, sweetly and professionally. She'd told Vyvyan her name, but he hadn't bothered remembering it, he'd be moving on soon enough and it didn't really matter anyway - they were all the same. Nearly every social worker he'd ever met had the same traits: kind, eager to help, entirely incapable of helping, fond of making assumptions about one's life, thoughts and emotional state, and far too busy and harried to do their job properly. The few who hadn't fit that profile fit another - jaded, cynical, unhappy and somewhat apathetic. He preferred the second profile to the first; at least he could relate. This one was firmly in the first camp.

"Yes, come in please," Mrs. Lawson said, ushering them in and closing the door behind them. Vyvyan looked around the entryway, scoping out the place. He'd be spending the night at least, possibly more if he couldn't figure out a secure escape plan over supper. The house was clean and tidy, if somewhat dark. It was tastefully furnished, and appeared comfortable. Appearances could be deceiving.

"We very much appreciate you taking him on such short notice," the social worker echoed the same as the dozen before her. It was always the same - he'd find his way out of whatever boring or distasteful or dangerous situation they'd plopped him into, and a few days or weeks later, the pigs would pick him up - or they'd get a call from whatever family he was currently with saying, "Please take him back now, we don't want any after all, thank you" - and back into the system he'd go, and it was back to, "We very much appreciate you taking him on such short notice." He wondered if any of them ever got anything but short notice, or if it was only him.

"Oh, it's no trouble at all, we're happy to have him," Mrs. Lawson knelt to look him in the eye. He hated when adults did that - it reminded him of how small he still was.

"Hello Vyvyan," she said. She had a sweet, quiet voice. Vyvyan wondered if it was her natural voice, or a habit born out of trying to please her undoubtedly overbearing husband, "Let's have a look at you, then."

She brushed a bit of his hair out of his eyes, and he scowled - he knew what was coming.

"You're a handsome one, aren't you? Look at all that hair, and such a color! Not quite blond, is it? I'd say it's a proper strawberry blond." She winked at him. He reddened.

They just couldn't resist, could they? Women couldn't help but name it. It wasn't bad enough he was going through life with a name like 'Vyvyan', not bad enough he was still a full head shorter than other boys his age (his mother was to blame for that one - a doctor had once called it "stunted growth due to malnutrition" - he was still holding out for puberty to rescue him from eternal shortness). No, he had to have a hair color evocative of swimsuit models and sun-kissed summer afternoons. Disgusting. One of these days he was just going to dye it all green, that'd show them.

He caught a glimpse of the sitting room doorway from where he stood, and he thought he could see a few toys. A suspicion began to form.

"You got other kids?" he asked, and Mrs. Lawson smiled.

"Yes, we have two of our own, you'll meet them this afternoon. Harry is seven and Michael is nine. I hope you'll be great friends."

Babies. Stupid.

"What you need me for, then?" The suspicion was growing.

"Oh, we love helping boys like you come to their full potential. You haven't had a fair shake in life and we want to help to improve your situation."

The answer was canned, rehearsed. Suspicion confirmed - Vyvyan was a bit of extra cash, possibly a bit of slave labor. He wondered if he'd get a real bedroom in this house - the last 'meal-ticket' house had pretended to have one prepared for him, but as soon as the social worker left, they'd given the room back to one of their own boys and put him on a cot in the cellar. That was two years ago - he'd been on the lookout for meal-ticket houses ever since; they were harder to run from, as the family didn't want to let go of their investment. Add the almost certainly abusive husband into the mix, and Vyvyan could tell he was going to have a time of it. He'd have to start planning escape as soon as possible.

The social worker made her goodbyes, and he was alone with frail, nervous Mrs. Lawson in her dimly-lit entryway. She watched him with sad eyes for a moment before taking a deep breath and putting on an unconvincing smile.

"Well, get your things, I'll show you your room."

He followed her up the stairs, to an open door. She gestured inside, and after a moment's hesitation, he stepped past her and into the room.

It was a proper bedroom, at least. Bed and wardrobe and everything. That was something. Hopefully he'd get to keep it, at least until he had a decent escape plan in place.

*****

"Boys, supper!" Mrs. Lawson's voice floated up the stairs and into Vyvyan's room. He wondered if she was a decent cook or not, then supposed he'd find out in a few minutes. He made his way downstairs just as one of the boys came in from the garden. He was a typical looking little boy - school uniform still on, hair in a short-ish bowl cut, hands a bit grubby. Mrs. Lawson took one look at him and practically gasped.

"Michael! Wash your hands this instant, you know your father won't abide that sort of filth at the table!"

Michael rushed to the kitchen sink as Vyvyan took a seat at the table. Mrs. Lawson smiled at him.

"Do you like shepherd's pie?"

Vyvyan shrugged, "Suppose so." He didn't really have meal preferences, seeing as he had literally no choice in the majority of them anyway.

"Well you'll like this one, promise. How are you settling in? Do you like your room?"

He shrugged again, "It's fine." He glanced around the room. Three exits, one to the front hallway, one to the kitchen, one to what looked like could be a den. Best to avoid that third room, it was probably the troll's cave.

The front door opened and shut quite firmly, and a man entered the dining room.

'Speak of the devil,' Vyvyan thought.

Mr. Lawson was a tall man, built stocky and thick, gruff and a bit hairy. He scowled around the room, scowled a bit harder to find nearly no one and nothing at the table. Mrs. Lawson had practically sprinted out of the room when the door opened, and was now coming back in with supper, carefully transporting it to the set table before sitting demurely. Michael ran in and sat down quickly, glancing fearfully at his father and away again, down at his empty plate. Mr. Lawson was still scowling - it appeared to be his default expression, knitting his bushy eyebrows into one solid, angry form.

"Where's Harry?" he growled, and Mrs. Lawson leapt to her feet.

"I…I called for him. He was up in his room last I checked." She moved quickly to the hallway and called up the stairs, "Harry! Harry didn't you hear me, supper's on the table!"

Mr. Lawson sat down heavily in a chair at the head of the table. He glared at Vyvyan, sizing him up and being quite obvious about it.

"So you're the new boy, eh?"

"Yeah," Vyvyan shrugged yet again and didn't quite look at him. Mr. Lawson slammed his hand down on the table and Michael jumped a foot.

"You will look at me when I'm talking to you, and you will address me as sir, is that understood?"

Vyvyan rolled his eyes discreetly before looking up at the man with a bored expression. "Yes, sir," he muttered. There was no need to cause a row on his first night, but he didn't have to be happy about it either.

Mr. Lawson stared him down, and was about to say something when his wife ushered a little, tow-headed boy into the room. He sat at the table quickly, avoiding his father's eyes.

"Why did you not come down the first time your mother called you?" Mr. Lawson said with a quiet tension, scooping his serving of supper onto his plate and watching the child sidelong.

Harry didn't look up, "I was playing wif my twains."

His father took on a look of disdain, "I was playing wif my twains," he said, mocking the boy in a sing-songy tone, "Bloody childish nonsense."

"George," Mrs. Lawson said, hesitantly, "He _is_ only seven."

"Wasn't talking to you, was I?" he didn't let his eyes off the boy, but Mrs. Lawson shrank back anyway, eyes immediately returning to her empty plate.

"When you're called to supper, you come down straight away or you answer to me. That clear?"

Harry nodded. Mr. Lawson slammed his hand down on the table again, swift and hard. Everyone in the room jumped - except Vyvyan.

"Yes, sir," Harry glanced up at his father and back down. Mr Lawson glared at him a moment longer before turning to glare at his wife.

"You going to serve up supper or sit around on your minge all night?"

An indignant frown flitted across Mrs. Lawson's face before she composed herself and reached for the dish.

"Of course George."

She served the boys and then herself. The family ate in silence, speaking only when spoken to by the patriarch. It seemed everyone in this family was afraid of setting off the silverback gorilla's territorial display. Vyvyan thought he'd sized this situation up just right - he wouldn't be here long at all.

*****

Yet another first day of school, just like all the others - middle of the school year and all eyes on him. It went by in a boring flash, and he skipped the last two periods to go nick an afternoon snack. He was still munching on crisps as he made his way through the door, his greasy fingers lingering on the handle as he nearly ran smack into Mr. Lawson. He was standing in the entryway as if waiting for something, or someone. Vyvyan looked up and Mr. Lawson looked down. Last night he seemed to be more bluster than form, though that remained to be seen. Now was as good a time as any to test the theory.

Vyvyan didn't say a word, but he didn't back down either. He simply stood there, staring defiantly into the larger man's eyes. Lawson didn't back down either. Oh, he backed up, so Vyvyan could enter and close the door, but he glared ever harder at the boy, a snarl beginning to form at the edge of his mouth.

"School rang," Mr. Lawson said, a voice like boiling water yet to be disturbed into bubbling, "Seems they lost track of you, boy."

Vyvyan shrugged, "Seems like it." He still didn't break his gaze.

"First day of school and you're skipping classes? What do you think this is, a bloody holiday?"

Vyvyan shook his head, "Holiday's usually less boring."

Mr. Lawson turned red. This was it - would he turn away? Would he back up his bark with a bite? There was nearly no warning - Vyvyan thought there was a chance he might strike, but he didn't expect the force, or the method, of the man's attack. He rushed Vyvyan, wrapped a thick, meaty hand around his throat and pinned him against the door. He wasn't pulling punches either - Vyvyan suddenly found himself struggling for air. Mr. Lawson got in his face, and where Vyvyan had expected shouting, there was a low, menacing tone instead.

"You listen to me you little hooligan, this is your only warning. You think social services didn't give us your record before they shipped you over? You're no poor, lost youth. Boys like you, they're no better than fucking dogs, you understand? You know what you do to a dog who won't mind? You beat it 'till it minds. You break it 'till you don't have to bother beatin' it - it only has to know you'll do it. You gonna' mind, boy, or are we gonna' have a round of training?"

Vyvyan, red-faced and desperate for air, looked straight at Mr. Lawson and said, "Woof." Then he smirked, best he could, fighting his baser instincts to struggle.

Mr. Lawson raised his other hand, and smacked him hard enough to send his ears ringing. He did it again. And again. Vyvyan didn't know what happened after that, because that was when his air ran out.


	2. Chapter 2

Vyvyan kept a low profile the next day. He went to school on time, made sure to go to all his classes. He nursed a black eye and sore throat all day. One or two teachers inquired about his injuries, but as it was already clear he was a scrapper, they were happy to accept his excuse of fighting after school. He knew telling on Lawson was out of the question. Somewhere along the line, the label _habitual liar_ had nestled into his social services file, and now no adult believed anything he said. Any attempt to speak out against Lawson's brand of discipline would lead to two outcomes - sanction and disapproval from his social worker, and another beating - likely a worse one.

As school let out, it appeared he had other problems. He was attempting to hurry home, as instructed by Mr. Psychopath Lawson. Unfortunately, between him and home there was suddenly a line of older boys - five in all - looking directly at him. Glaring, in fact.

"Oi, new kid," the one in the middle said, "Where d'ya think you're goin'?"

He was so sick of being referred to as "new kid". He glared at the apparent ringleader. He was a skin, of the old-school. Cropped hair, a pair of skinny braces, smart slacks rolled above his Doc Martins. His compatriots appeared much the same - the look was slowly coming back into fashion, and these blokes clearly bought the trend. They were probably fourteen or fifteen - a good two to three years on him. Child's play; Vyvyan stood his ground.

"You don't intimidate me," he said, and he meant it. In his experience, most bullies messed with him a total of once.

"Fancy big word for such a little fucker."

"It's not all that big of a word, perhaps it's just your brain's exceptionally small."

"Right," the ringleader's face went red, "Get him, boys."

"Really?" Vyvyan shouted, and they stopped in their tracks, "Have to get your bodyguards to trounce me instead of facing me yourself? You some sort of poof, can't fight your own battles?"

The ringleader held back his friends, anger shining in his eyes. Vyvyan suddenly noticed, his eyes were a stunning green, unusual for someone with such dark hair. He didn't know why he'd suddenly thought that.

"I'll take you on myself, you little fucker!"

"That your only insult? My, you have got a small vocabulary, haven't you?"

The ringleader answered with a swing - and a miss. He was about a head taller than Vyvyan, and it was easy to squirrel out of his way. He dropped to the ground and swept the bully's legs out from under him. The bully fell hard, but kept swinging. He grabbed at Vyvyan and managed to catch him by the ankle. Vyvyan tried to struggle out of his grip, but couldn't manage. The bully tugged, and Vyvyan went down with him. He landed right on his back, the wind knocked out of him. The bully took the opportunity to climb atop him and start throwing punches.

He got three in before Vyvyan found his senses enough to fight back. Vyvyan managed, somehow, to reverse their positions, and suddenly he was the one with the upper hand. It seemed the bully had underestimated him. He was about to land punch number six when the bully's hands went up in defense.

"All right, all right, I give!"

Vyvyan stopped - no reason for overkill.

"You finished?" he screamed into the bully's face. The bully nodded.

"Yeah, yeah, misunderstandin'," the bully flinched, his hands still raised.

"Good. Leave me alone." Vyvyan got up and left him on the ground, pushing past his stunned friends.

*****

"Where d'ya think you're goin'?"

Vyvyan rolled his eyes - how many times was he going to be asked that today? He stopped anyway - walking away from Mr. Lawson was a good way to get smacked in the back of the head. He towered over Vyvyan, seemingly trying to make himself larger and more intimidating than he already was.

'Yes,' Vyvyan thought sarcastically, 'You're a very big man, and I'm sure you've got an enormous cock, and you prove it every time you push around a twelve-year-old.'

"Yes, sir?" he muttered instead.

"You're late, you little hooligan." 'You little hooligan' appeared to be Vyvyan's name, according to Mr. Lawson, "What time's school get out?"

"Three o'clock, sir."

"And what time is it now?"

Vyvyan shrugged and glared at the floor, "I dunno, you're standing in front of the clock."

He knew it would get him smacked. He didn't much mind. He'd had worse from the bully, and it gave him a sort of sick satisfaction to watch Mr. Lawson lose his temper; it made him feel superior to the tyrannical bastard. The smack did hurt, however. It was a backhand, actually, with his ring hand, the psychopath.

"You smartarse little hooligan, you know bloody well what time it bloody is!"

Vyvyan shrugged and nodded, "I joined a club."

He'd worked it out on his way home. Men like Lawson pretended to care about things like school attendance and punctuality, but they had no follow-through. He'd never check up on the story, and Vyvyan would be gone before the truth had a chance to come out.

"I joined a club," Lawson said mockingly, "Types like you never join bloody clubs, don't you bloody lie to me!" He raised his hand again in warning and Vyvyan spoke up before he could decide to go ahead.

"I did! There's a Philosophy club, and I joined it!" he watched Lawson defiantly. Lawson lowered his hand and scowled.

"Should have known you'd have an interest in some sort of poncy intellectual crap like a bloody Philosophy club, all the fancy words you use, as if you could bloody understand 'em. Get your arse upstairs, your majesty, I don't want to see your ugly face 'till supper."

Lawson stomped off and Vyvyan congratulated himself.

'It's too bad there isn't a Philosophy club,' he thought as he climbed the stairs, 'I'd join it, if I were staying.'

*****

Vyvyan was sitting alone under a tree, having eschewed lunch itself for a chance to carve expletives into said tree, when a voice called out to him from the steps of the nearby science building.

"Oi, new kid!" Vyvyan's hand slipped, and the current word he was carving came close to ending up as cocksacker. He looked sharply and irritatedly in the direction of the noise. There he stood, the bully from the day before, alone and looking somewhat sheepish at Vyvyan's expression.

Vyvyan turned his attention away again - if the bastard wanted to talk to him, he'd make the effort.

"Oi, new kid, c'mere!"

"Fuck off," Vyvyan called over his shoulder. The bully approached him and kicked at the dirt near where he sat.

"What'cha doin'?" he actually sounded interested - what was his angle?

"What's it look like?" Vyvyan still didn't look up.

"Heh, yeah. Look, erm…" out of the corner of his eye, Vyvyan saw the bully look around as if to ensure they weren't being watched, "We got off on the wrong foot, yeah? You fight pretty good."

"Well."

"Wha?"

"I fight pretty well. And you fight like a girl."

Vyvyan watched the bully sidelong, saw him swallow his irritation and try again. Was this bastard actually trying to make friends? That was answered pretty quickly - the bully sat down next to him and held out a hand to shake.

"Angus," he said, "Angus Moore."

Vyvyan rolled his eyes and steeled himself for the reaction to his own introduction. He took Angus' hand to shake, "Vyvyan Basterd."

Angus blinked. "Seriously?"

Vyvyan shrugged. Angus shrugged back.

"Friends call me Basterd." That was a lie - he wasn't typically in a place long enough to make friends. He just didn't want people using his first name if he could help it.

"Basterd. Yeah, that'll do. Look Basterd, I was wonderin'…you want to maybe meet me after school? Have a smoke or sommat?"

Vyvyan shrugged again, "I suppose. Haven't got anything better to do." It would really piss Lawson off - why not?

Angus smiled - his green eyes sparkled. Vyvyan found himself getting suddenly warm.

"Great! Hey, but keep it hush-hush, right? It's a secret, can't be found out by just anybody, you know?"

Vyvyan shrugged yet again - who would he talk to, exactly? And why, exactly, would having a smoke out behind the school be so secret? It wasn't anything hundreds of kids hadn't done before them. But whatever. He didn't really mind hanging about with Angus - he was intriguing somehow. And Vyvyan felt a little…funny around him. Nice, funny. 'Want to spend more time feeling it' funny. After Angus clapped him on the shoulder and walked off, Vyvyan felt something he didn't feel often - he wanted him to come back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although it's mentioned in the tags, this chapter starts out with a STRONG trigger warning for domestic violence, specifically spousal/partner abuse. Also for a bit of victim blaming/apologism, but give the boy a break. He's a heavily traumatized twelve year old.

_Vyvyan is three years old. Possibly four. Either way, this memory is early, one of the earliest. One which will be forgotten in a decade, lost in the blur of myriad stolen, suppressed, broken moments. He is sitting on a filthy kitchen floor, surrounded by dust motes and the occasional roach. He is currently watching a particularly large roach scuttle bravely across the floor in complete disregard for the light of day. In the background, in the next room, is the sound of a drunken, angry man screaming obscenities at Vyvyan's equally drunken, angry mum. She screams back. There is the unmistakable sound of a slap. Then another. Then a crash. Then his mum falls into the kitchen, crashing into a cupboard, having been violently shoved, perhaps even thrown, by the drunken, angry man. The man follows after her and grabs her by the hair. His mum grabs his arm and digs her nails into it. He yells in surprise and lets go. He makes to attack her again, but she is too quick for him - she punches him square in the nose before he can strike. She does it again before kneeing him in the groin. He doubles over, dazed and in pain, and she takes the opportunity to kick him backwards. He slams against the kitchen door, which falls open, and he falls through it, mirroring her earlier entrance. She follows him outside. There is the sound of scuffling._

_"Fuckin' daft cunt!" That was the drunken, angry man._

_"Fuck off!" That was Vyvyan's mum._

_She comes back inside and locks the door. She makes sure to lock the front door as well. She comes back to the kitchen, picks up Vyvyan, and brings him into the living room. She sits him on her lap on the sofa and hugs him tight. Her nose is bleeding. She begins sniffing the blood back, and then soon after she begins wiping away tears. Vyvyan watches her, frightened, but not as much as one might expect. A typical child might have been crying long before she began, but he simply watches her with a cautious, fearful expression, unsure how to respond until she gives him a hint. She looks down at him, smiles through watery eyes._

_"Mummy's all right now, she's only having a little cry now that it's over. Never let them see they've hurt you, lovey," she says, using a name she will abandon long before she abandons him. He still can't stand it if any of his foster mothers calls him that. He will forever hate that word, though in time he will forget exactly why. By adulthood he will only know the sound of it makes his stomach ache in a horribly uncomfortable combination of desperate need and deep sorrow, and he will want to bring great violence upon anyone he hears using it._

_"Let them beat you, let them call you whatever they want, let them have their fun. But always prove you're the stronger, the_ better _, and never, ever let them see they've hurt you."_

_She hugs his head to her chest, and he allows himself a little cry as well._

Vyvyan lay in bed, this terrible, wonderful memory stuck on repeat in his mind, as the sounds of Mrs. Lawson's beating cut through the pillow he held over his ears. She was sobbing, hysterical. Mr. Lawson was screaming, his usual quiet, seething anger replaced by violent, incoherent rage. Vyvyan shook, out of panic and helpless rage and sheer stress. He fought back tears.

'She isn't doing it right,' he thought, 'He'll never stop until he thinks she's too strong for him.'

He wasn't blaming her, not really. He knew she wasn't to blame for her husband's penchant for abuse - he'd had first-hand experience proving otherwise. He was simply processing the situation in the only way his young mind could manage. People like Lawson were a force of nature, a struggle of everyday life to be encountered and overcome. It seemed to him, Mrs. Lawson simply needed more practice in fighting back. He tried to distract himself from the scene downstairs by imagining himself giving Mrs. Lawson brawling lessons. He could teach her how to punch, how to evade hits and counter-strike, how to strike first. He could make it so Mr. Lawson would back off, and maybe he'd be able to stay in one place for longer than a few days, or weeks.

The house went suddenly, terrifyingly silent. After the din, it was hard to say whether the fight was simply declared over, or whether the Lawson's boys had just lost their mother. A new cry rang through the house - probably Harry. It went on for a few minutes before Mrs. Lawson's weak, trembling voice floated up the stairs.

"Mummy's fine, sweetheart! Don't worry!" Although her call was clearly meant to soothe her own boy, Vyvyan found himself releasing a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He tensed again immediately when Mr. Lawson yelled again.

"Shut your mouth!" Vyvyan could practically see Mrs. Lawson shrinking back, "And that goes double for you, bloody crybaby! Don't make me come up there! I'll give you something to bloody cry about!"

Predictably, this only made Harry sob louder. Mr. Lawson stomped up the stairs, and Vyvyan was confronted with the sounds of the second entirely unfair beating of the night. Sounded as if Mr. Lawson was using a strap.

Vyvyan rolled onto his side, away from the door, placing his pillow under his head properly in case Lawson decided to do bed checks. He scowled into the wall, out of anger over what was happening outside his door, and at the tears now flowing freely down his face, as much as he tried to ignore them.

Fuck this mess. He'd be gone tomorrow night.

*****

But the next afternoon found Vyvyan sitting on the floor in as unfamiliar a situation as he thought he'd ever been in. The only familiar thing was the grass, good stuff Angus had bought from a source he knew but refused to reveal. Vyvyan was over at Angus' house. Sitting in Angus' room, listening to records and getting high. Strangely, he'd been invited over to someone's house, and even stranger, he'd gone. He wasn't sure this had ever happened to him before. He couldn't remember a time he'd been in one place long enough to be invited anywhere, but here he was, even though he'd only known Angus what, two days, and one of them as enemies? It was odd…but it was also nice.

Vyvyan let out the hit he'd been holding, "You sure we're not gonna get caught?"

Angus took the joint from him and hit it, "Nah, my folks are never around, they work too much. There's half a chance I won't see 'em till week's end."

"Huh. All the better, I suppose."

Vyvyan sat back against the wall and took in his surroundings. Angus' room was a mess, but that didn't bother him at all. It looked lived-in, comfortable, like it had been occupied for years. Vyvyan had never slept in a room like that. Angus had posters up on the wall, a hodgepodge collection; Slade, Johnny Nash, The Who, Led Zeppelin, The Wailers, his taste was a bit all over the place. They were currently listening to a demo by some obscure American band. It was really quite good.

"Who's this again?" Vyvyan asked, his eyes making new patterns out of the psychedelic Led Zeppelin poster.

"Ramones," Angus said, proudly, "My brother brought it back from his trip to New York, they was givin' it away at some little club in Manhattan."

"I like it," Vyvyan said thoughtfully, "They're somehow…energetically lazy."

Angus laughed so hard he started coughing, "What's that now? Basterd, you're too fuckin' much!"

He ruffled Vyvyan's hair and Vyvyan smiled at him, bewildered. Was that good-natured ribbing? So many firsts today.

He closed his eyes and listened to the music. Angus sat close by him, Vyvyan could feel his warmth, and it felt good - so good to just sit comfortably in the presence of another person, especially a person who seemed to want him around. (That Angus still insisted on private meetings had been selectively ignored. It didn't matter that they weren't friendly at school - they were friendly after it, that was enough.)

Perhaps he'd stay a few more days after all. Angus had a lot of records, it would be a shame to miss out on any before he left.

*****

Vyvyan lay in bed, in the embarrassingly unfortunate position of being cared for. Mrs. Lawson held a cold pack to the bump on his head. It was a big one above his right eye, it was growing ever bigger, and it hurt like hell. Of course it hurt, it tended to hurt when your foster father slammed your head into the kitchen floor as punishment for not having mopped it sufficiently. Vyvyan reasoned it was his fault, really. He'd been the one stupid enough to actually get down on his hands and knees and look at the streaks on the floor, as ordered by Mr. Psychopath. He'd done it almost as soon as Vyvyan was on the ground, grabbing the back of his head and shoving it straight down, quite forcefully. He'd laughed afterward, as Vyvyan lay dazed on the ground, grasping at his head, trying not to whimper and failing. That was the worst bit - that laugh, like it was a hilarious joke he'd just played. He laughed even harder when Vyvyan threw up.

"Won't be going to your precious _Philosophy club_ tomorrow, will you? Perhaps I've done you a favor, knocked that bloody nonsense out of your tiny brain," he'd said through his laughter as he headed out the door, "Clean that sick up as well. If that floor isn't sparkling when I get back, I'll cut your fucking bollocks off!"

Mrs. Lawson was caring for him because he'd been unable to get up on his own - he was dizzy, and his vision was a bit cloudy. She'd been there for the whole thing, and as soon as her husband was gone she helped Vyvyan up to his room and began caring for him straight away. She kept shining a torch in his eyes, which was very annoying, but she insisted it was for his own good, so he put up with it. He figured if anyone knew about the treatment of head injuries, it would be her.

"Why would you marry someone like him?" Vyvyan asked, rather oblivious to the harsh and insensitive nature of the question.

Mrs. Lawson looked pensive and didn't answer for a little while. She sighed, "It wasn't always like this. George was always a bit…gruff. But he was so charming-" Vyvyan snorted and Mrs. Lawson shook her head, "No honestly, he was! He swept me off my feet, we had a whirlwind romance, it was wonderful at first." (Vyvyan tried very hard not to become sick at this description - or perhaps it was the head injury.) "We seem to have run into trouble along the way, that's all. It's only, his work troubles him, and the children annoy him, and everything I do anymore seems to upset him. And he drinks so much, it certainly doesn't help." She shook her head again, very sadly, "I don't know where we went wrong."

Vyvyan didn't know what to say to that. It seemed abundantly clear to him that the place where they went wrong was getting married in the first place. But he wasn't about to say so - even he knew that would be a bit over the line. He tried a change of topic instead.

"What about the kitchen? I've still got to mop it properly."

"Oh don't worry about that. Never mind, I'll get to it. You need to stay here and rest."

"But he said-"

Mrs. Lawson smiled a conspiratorial little smile at him, "He's gone down the pub. He won't be back for hours, and when he does come back he'll have forgotten all about it, believe me. It'll be our little secret, and he'll never be the wiser."

Vyvyan looked at her. She was being so kind to him, this virtual stranger in her house, this child who had been plopped on her doorstep, likely against her will. She didn't deserve one moment of the torture that monster inflicted on her. He felt sorry for her, so sorry that it felt extremely uncomfortable and he had to think of something else for a while before he started getting all girly and weepy or something.

She left for a while, and Vyvyan slept lightly. Eventually she came back with a bit of bread and lots of water. She woke him and checked his eyes again before offering him a glass. He drank eagerly, and found it wasn't the wisest of ideas to sit up so quickly. He lay back down and watched her some more as she straightened things around his room.

"What's your name?" he asked her, having realized in the near fortnight he'd been in the house, he'd never heard it spoken.

"Virginia," she said, coming back to sit at his bedside, "I'm a V name too." She winked at him, like she had the first day he'd arrived. This time he smiled faintly.

"Virginia, I could teach you how to fight him, you know. Fight back, so he'd leave you alone."

Her response was so quick, it was clear she'd already considered it.

"Oh, I could never do that," there wasn't a single drop of joy in her smile, "If I were to raise a hand to him, he'd kill me. It's a very sweet offer, but I couldn't even think of such a thing. It's probably better if you don't ever let him hear you say anything like that."

She left the room rather suddenly. He realized he'd probably upset her. What's worse, he believed her completely. Thinking it through, he realized it was extremely likely Lawson would end up killing her regardless. This place was a nightmare. He had to get out. Soon. He'd give it a few more days - time to get well enough to go back to school and say goodbye to Angus. Then he'd be out of there.

*****

Vyvyan's first day back at school after the concussion was just as boring and nondescript as ever. He was heading back to the house to pack up and go when Angus walked up behind him.

"Alright, Basterd," he said, clapping a hand on Vyvyan's shoulder. Vyvyan jumped - he'd heard someone behind him, but hadn't expected the physical contact. Angus laughed and Vyvyan smiled to see him.

"Alright, Moore, what's the word?"

"Not much, where've you been? I haven't had anybody to shoplift with all week."

Vyvyan shook his head, "Convalescing."

Angus furrowed his brow, "Wha?"

Vyvyan tsked, "My foster father's an arsehole." He lifted the fringe at his forehead to reveal the still-healing welt on his head. Angus whistled.

"That's a doozy. Shit, I thought my old man was bad."

"Mmm."

They walked in silence for a while, not really going anywhere in particular, though Vyvyan had veered away from the direction of the house. He didn't want Angus coming anywhere near it. Angus stopped suddenly, a thoughtful look on his face. He nodded as if coming to a decision.

"Right. Come on, Basterd, this way."

He headed off in the opposite direction and Vyvyan followed after him.

"Where are we going?"

"We're gonna' cheer you up. Those duds are a mess, we're gonna' see about something snappier."

Vyvyan looked down at his clothes. He supposed the t-shirt was a bit ragged at the edges, and his jeans had a hole in the knee. But clothes were expensive, and they weren't exactly easy to steal. He said as much and Angus shook his head.

"Use your head, Basterd! Why nick clothes when you can pick pockets? You _can_ pick pockets, can't you?"

Vyvyan snorted, "Probably better than you."

"We'll see about that. Keep up, come on!"

Vyvyan kept up, watching the back of Angus' dark, shorn head. Another person being nice to him, so incredibly nice. And Angus was so cool. He was a good fighter (almost as good as Vyvyan), and he knew all sorts of tricks and cons that Vyvyan didn't know, and he knew where to get grass, and yet he still wanted to spend time with a boy like Vyvyan, a boy he shouldn't have bothered giving the time of day. Vyvyan could understand his reluctance to do so at school, around his friends. Hanging about the younger kid who kicked your arse earlier in the month wasn't exactly a good popularity move. He got that. But he felt lucky to be paid attention to, and positive attention at that. He wasn't used to it at all, but it felt…amazing.

An hour later they met outside the local M&S and compared the results of their friendly wager. Final totals were Angus: £43 and Vyvyan: £75. Vyvyan beamed at Angus proudly, and Angus pretended to be insulted for about ten seconds before congratulating him.

"Well fucking done, Basterd. You're going to have to teach me your secret!"

"I have many and sundry, and I'm afraid I charge. First lesson'll be…£43?"

Angus noogied him. Vyvyan let him. They waltzed right back into the store and bought Vyvyan two entire outfits and a pair of Doc Martens - the first pair Vyvyan ever owned.

Angus invited Vyvyan home to try on his new digs, and Vyvyan happily followed him. But when they got there, Angus headed straight for the bathroom. Vyvyan hesitated, thinking he was just stopping off for a piss, but then Angus called after him.

"You comin' or what?"

"Into the loo?"

"Just come here!"

Vyvyan came in, just as Angus reached into a drawer and came up with a straight razor, and an electric. He held up the electric and gave Vyvyan a mischievous grin.

"We've got the clothes down. Gonna' do somethin' about that hair," he said, and Vyvyan grinned back.

Perfect. He couldn't just up and leave after this. He was going to have to stay a while, maybe a week or more, to show off his new look. This was shaping up to be an excellent day; perhaps he had many more ahead of him.


	4. Chapter 4

Vyvyan stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom, admiring himself. He couldn't stop smiling; he loved his hair this short. It was pale enough it only looked blond - no more strawberries. Angus said he looked, "right proper" and Vyvyan had to agree. The look suited him, along with the pegged jeans and the braces and the Doc Martins. He was a skin now, really and truly, and it was all thanks to Angus. He was busy preening in the mirror and didn't notice when Mr. Lawson appeared in his doorway.

"Look at you," Mr. Lawson growled and Vyvyan jumped and whirled his attention toward the voice, "Unbelievable. You haven't been goin' to no bloody club, you've got yourself some no-good friends and they've dressed you up like a bloody football hooligan. What are you doing in here, primping in front of the mirror like a bloody ponce?"

Vyvyan scowled at him, shrugged, "You said I should cut my hair, I cut it, now you want to criticize? Just because I've got better taste than you-"

He was cut off when Lawson rushed his way into the room, and he took a step back.

"What have I told you about speaking to me in that tone, boy? You think this is a fucking game?"

Lawson kept approaching and Vyvyan kept backing away, until his back was to the open window. It was a bad move, he knew it, but Lawson had him cornered. Just as expected, Lawson took the opportunity. He grabbed Vyvyan by his shirt and shoved backward, until Vyvyan dangled halfway out the window, held up by one meaty hand. He tried not to panic, but his instinct was forcing him to flail, try to hold on to something.

"I should let you bloody go, you know that?" Lawson growled, "A straight drop, two stories, and nothing but concrete. If I'm lucky, you'd land on your fucking head, do us both a favor."

"You wouldn't," Vyvyan said quickly, "You wouldn't bother going to prison over me."

Lawson laughed and leaned him further out the window - he was further out than in now.

"You think they'd send me to prison over a hooligan like you? Fuck, the police ought to figure I'm doing them a favor, one less useless drain on society."

Vyvyan didn't want to beg, but he was close to it. The crazy fucker was really going to do it, wasn't he? He'd begun fighting himself against opening his mouth when Lawson hauled him back inside and let him drop onto the floor. He gripped the floorboards, panting heavily, adrenaline coursing through his body. He'd really thought he'd had it there, for a moment.

Fuck. That was exactly what Lawson wanted, wasn't it? Scare the little hooligan into compliance? Fuck that.

"You're a coward," he muttered, loud enough for Lawson to hear.

"What did you say to me?" Lawson grabbed him by the shirt again and pulled his face close.

"You're a COWARD! You pick on people cos you're scared nobody'll listen to your STUPID OPINIONS otherwise!" Vyvyan screamed in his face. Lawson didn't smack him this time - he punched him. Closed-fist, right in the eye, just below his still-healing head welt. Then he picked Vyvyan up and began carrying him out of the room.

"LET ME GO YOU BASTARD!" Vyvyan flailed and kicked, but to no avail. Lawson carried him downstairs, fought to open the cellar door with Vyvyan still trying to escape, and once it was open, he flung the boy inside. Vyvyan landed hard on the cold ground. He felt lucky it wasn't a finished floor, only packed dirt, a bit of a softer landing than it could have been. He looked up at Lawson, standing at the top of the stairs. He blocked the door.

"You're going to stay in there, you hear me? You're going to stay in there 'till you learn some fucking respect!"

Lawson slammed the door and Vyvyan heard him lock it. He was alone in the pitch black cellar, for god knew how long, but at least he wasn't being actively beaten, that was something. He felt his way around until he found the stairs, and finally the light switch - but it was useless. No bulb, or it was burned out, or perhaps Lawson was enough of a psychopath to have planned for this eventuality. In any case, it was dark, and it was going to stay that way. He reached for his lighter, and found his pocket empty. Damn; it was in his discarded jeans. There was no getting out of it. He leaned against the door and stared out into the darkness, hoping his eyes would adjust. They did, somewhat, but all he could see were vague shadows. It was simply too dark. Far too dark. It reminded of him of the nights when…

He couldn't think about that. He couldn't ever think about it, no matter how much it lingered in the back of his mind. But…he couldn't NOT think about it. He began shaking involuntarily, his mind hearkening back to those long nights huddled in the dark, waiting for a rescue that never came. He willed himself not to cry, and failed. Damn that fucker, Lawson. How dare he do this to him? Of all things, why did he have to leave him alone in the dark? He sat miserable and terrified for far too long.

He had to do something to keep his mind off it. He began feeling around again, until his hand fell on something with a long, wooden handle, hanging on the wall. A hammer? No. A _hatchet_. Ooo. That could be fun. He unhooked it from the wall and felt the weight of it in his hands. It felt good. He imagined Lawson right in front of him and struck. The hatchet whiffed through the air satisfyingly. He imagined it again. He began wandering about, occasionally running into a wall, but mostly just wandering freely around the mostly empty cellar. swinging the hatchet and imagining it sailing through everyone he ever hated. Foster parents, teachers, social workers, headmasters, pigs, street kids. He came to Angus and he halted mid-swing. He didn't want to murder Angus. Not at all.

He hoped he'd get out soon. He was supposed to meet Angus again tomorrow. He hoped the future held a million tomorrows that included Angus. He sat on the steps again, half-listening to the Lawsons argue about whether or not he should be fed, and whether or not school would come calling if he stayed in there too long. His mind lingered on Angus, and whether or not he should stay. He'd been so sure in the beginning, and the recent incident was only more encouragement to leave. But something about the thought of leaving made his stomach drop. He'd have to think about it more.

He supposed he didn't have much of a choice, so long as he was still in the cellar. Though it sounded like Virginia might actually be _winning_ this argument. Perhaps he wouldn't be in the cellar long after all.

*****

Vyvyan waited patiently at their usual meeting spot, just outside the school. Vyvyan was patient, but eager. He was beginning to feel that way every day. He'd begun waking up in a mood Lawson couldn't berate or beat out of him, looking forward to the moment when he would see Angus again. It felt so strange, so good, to have a friend. Maybe he really would stay after all - learn the name of the school, and put up with Lawson being Lawson, and settle down here. Maybe when he was bigger, he'd become Virginia's protector and chase her husband off and be the man of the house. Maybe he'd stay at the same school long enough to graduate and get into medical school. Maybe he'd be Angus' friend back.

The boy who'd occupied more of his thoughts than not lately rounded the corner and Vyvyan brightened. He wondered what the adventure would be today. Graffiti? Slashing tires? Robbery?

Soon after, Vyvyan and Angus bolted out of a shop, the shopkeeper shouting angrily after them, the two boys howling in laughter. They ran, kept running, until they reached the closed schoolyard (it being a Saturday and all). They scaled the fence and kept running until Angus stopped suddenly and pulled Vyvyan aside. This little shaded alcove was a decent hiding place. Vyvyan stomach flip-flopped at Angus' touch. He wasn't sure why he'd been reacting like that so often around Angus. He supposed it was the way everybody felt about friends - Angus was _definitely_ his friend. It was a strange experience, having a friend. He wasn't accustomed to being paid so much attention - certainly not positive attention. And Angus had such an influence on him. He wouldn't have admitted it, but he was well on his way to worshiping Angus. Tall, strong, handsome, green-eyed, built-for-fighting, streetwise Angus.

The two pulled the spoils of their victory from their pockets and giggled over them.

"What'd you get?" Angus said, showing off the two packs of fags, girlie mag, and various small treats. Vyvyan pulled out much the same - but with a huge bottle of whiskey rather than the fags. Angus' eyes lit up and Vyvyan felt his pulse race, happy to have pleased him. They immediately dug into the smokes and alcohol, until they were quite giddy, and _quite_ drunk.

They were flipping through one of the porn mags and giggling like mad when it happened. They reached a page featuring a sultry, spread-eagled brunette gazing seductively at the camera, and Vyvyan let out a loud, surprised laugh. Angus laughed along, but he leaned in drunkenly and attempted to shush him through his giggles. Vyvyan leaned in as well, shushing and giggling back. Before either even really knew what was happening, Angus closed the gap between them and kissed Vyvyan square on the mouth.

Vyvyan's eyes went wide as saucers as he froze. He didn't know what to do. He'd never kissed _anyone_ before, not beyond being occasionally chased down and kissed by a couple of aggressive girls, back in the days when he'd still been horrified by the idea. Now he was at an age when he would have paid actual money, or indeed, sold any number of limbs, to kiss a girl. But Angus wasn't a girl, clearly. And yet, in the milliseconds before Angus pulled back again and watched him fearfully, Vyvyan had time to notice how incredibly good it felt for Angus to kiss him. It felt like all of his insides had melted into a warm, rushing fluid; like his soul was glowing. It felt, he thought, as Angus watched him as if anticipating a fight, like he wanted to do it again. So he leaned back in and closed his eyes as their lips met - he knew you were supposed to close your eyes to do it properly.

He assumed Angus closed his as well, because he kissed back, hungrily. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Angus tossed the magazine aside and moved toward Vyvyan until he was practically on top of him.

'Oh,' Vyvyan thought, rather absurdly, as Angus' hand brushed down his side, sending a million warm shivers along his spine, 'I _fancy_ him!'

Suddenly all of the butterflies and strange fixations and late-night obsessions and odd feelings fell into place. If Angus _had_ been a girl, he might have caught it right away - he'd fancied girls before after all. But it really hadn't occurred to him that the way he felt about Angus Moore was essentially identical to the way he'd felt about Shirley Banks, or Elizabeth Harding or any of the other pretty girls he'd run across over the past year or so. Only it appeared, this time, he was fancied back.

It certainly seemed that way, considering the way Angus was cupping his face, stroking his cheek with his thumb. Not to mention the way his tongue was attempting to rove Vyvyan's mouth, insistent, slow, sensual - Angus was practiced at this.

'How many of his friends has he snogged?' Vyvyan thought as he awkwardly attempted to match Angus' movements. He was probably crap at this. Maybe if he was lucky, Angus would be willing to give him practice. Maybe Angus would want to do more, go further. Angus confirmed that notion when his roving hand began making its way toward Vyvyan's trousers.

Oh. Oh _no_.

Vyvyan froze up again as he experienced another new sensation - timidity. He didn't really feel ready for more. The thought was beyond daunting - it was scary and confusing, and he really didn't want to dwell on it. He shouldn't be doing this anyway. He liked _girls_. He pulled away, and the fear must have shown on his face, because Angus suddenly looked rather frightened himself.

"Sorry," Angus breathed, "I'm sorry."

Vyvyan was torn between running away and going right back to kissing him. He shook his head and attempted a nonchalant shrug.

"'S'okay. Only…I've got to get home. It's after dark, I'm gonna' get my arse kicked."

Angus swallowed and nodded, "Okay."

Vyvyan stood, and walked a few steps before Angus called his name. His first name. Vyvyan's stomach did back-flips. He turned around.

"You probably shouldn't…y'know…tell nobody." Even in the dim street light, he could see the concern on Angus' face.

Concern over Angus' concern didn't occur to him at the time. He kicked himself for weeks afterward, but at that moment all he could think about was _Angus, Angus, Angus_. Angus said his name, Angus wanted something from him, Angus wanted to make sure nobody at school thought he was a poofter, and it was probably a good idea that nobody thought that of Vyvyan either. Especially if they were going to do that again. He thought he might want to. Maybe. Probably.

"Of course not! No worries," he said, and smiled.

Angus smiled back, a big grin that crinkled his eyes and wrinkled his nose and made Vyvyan want to melt into his shoes. Then he nodded after him and walked away, leaving their contraband behind him. Vyvyan watched him go before turning around and heading home.

It was decided - he was staying.

*****

He didn't see Angus at school the next day, or the day after. This was likely part of the reason it went down the way it did. They were between periods when he finally saw him, clustered with his usual group of friends next to the gym. Several things happened at once - Vyvyan saw Angus, his stomach clenched, he went warm and red-faced, and he had to try hard to think of disgusting things to avoid a very embarrassing situation. Angus was facing him, and for just a moment their eyes locked. Angus didn't seem to register him, his face unchanging. He looked away. Vyvyan assumed he hadn't really seen him and approached, seemingly against his will. He wanted to be closer to him, look into his striking green eyes, feel the warmth of his smile. That he'd never, ever, approached Angus at school no longer mattered, barely registered. The little that did occur to him was easily rationalized away the closer he got.

'I'm one of them, now,' he thought, 'And I'm Angus' friend. And he _fancies_ me.'

"Alright, Angus," he called, mere feet from the clutch of boys. Conversation stopped, and all eyes fell on him. Angus smiled - but it wasn't the warm, friendly smile Vyvyan had grown used to. It wasn't the smile that had very nearly sent Vyvyan rushing back into his arms the other night. It was cold, sarcastic, cruel. It was the smile he'd worn that first day they'd met, when he'd tried and failed to bully the new kid.

"Aww, ain't that cute? The little herbert thinks he's one of us. Run along, little boy - the big folk are talkin'. Go on now!"

He made a little shooing motion with one hand. His friends all laughed, and so did he. Hard. At Vyvyan.

It took him a moment to realize what had happened. For a split second he thought Angus might have been joking, giving him a bit of friendly hell. But the cruel, uncaring look remained on his face, and he began to turn away. Vyvyan saw red, his ears ringing, his face scarlet. He was only just barely aware of what happened next.

He caught Angus by the shoulder and spun him to face him. Then he punched him right in the nose. He hit him again, and again, before outright tackling him. The attack caught Angus by enough surprise that he couldn't respond at first - he didn't even attempt to fight back until he was on the ground.

Fighting back was futile. Vyvyan's rage fueled strength into his fists, locked his legs on either side of the older boy's waist, enhanced his already finely-honed reflexes. He couldn't hear the screams of the other boys, could see nothing but the object of his hatred. He just kept punching, until Angus was howling for a mercy he would not receive. Vyvyan's eyes welled as he attacked, screaming angry insults into incoherence. He held Angus down by his neck with one hand, not quite choking. He reached down beside Angus' head with the other, into the decorative gravel along the path, and came up with a handful. A tumult of emotions swirled across his face, and he wound up in a sneer as he smashed the gravel into Angus' forehead, his scalp. He ground hard, as if trying to drive the rocks into the other boy's brain, screaming rage into his face, his other hand still clutching his throat, the blood on the boy's forehead beginning to trickle past his fingers.

It was then that the hands reached his arms and began pulling him away. He fought them, struggling against their insistent pull, but the hands belonged to adults, and he was fighting a losing battle.

It took four large, strong teachers to pry Vyvyan off of the sobbing, terrified boy. He fought them all the way to the headmaster's office, still filled with rage, screaming and crying at once, determined to get back to Angus and finish the job. As they passed the stunned crowd of onlookers, he heard one of Angus' friends say, "I dunno. The kid just lost it, Moore didn't do _nothin'_ to him."

For a moment the teachers holding him had to struggle against his trying to go after that boy as well.

*****

"Expelled! You've only been at the bloody school a bloody month and already expelled!" Lawson was redder-faced than he'd been in a while - that vein in his forehead was popping out.

"Don't see what you care," Vyvyan muttered, staring at the floor, "You don't give a fuck about me anyway."

Lawson grabbed his arm and got into his face, "Don't you use that sort of language in this house, you little delinquent. It's no wonder your mother gave you up, you worthless little shit, you're not worth keeping. Get your arse upstairs, I'm calling social services, I'm through."

He shoved Vyvyan in the vicinity of the stairs by his arm - Vyvyan hit the wall instead, knocking a picture frame down in the process. The glass shattered, and before Vyvyan had a chance to escape upstairs, Lawson was forcing him to his knees. He had to brace himself with his hands to keep from falling face-first into the glass. Lawson held him down by the back of his neck, shaking him as he yelled, forcing the glass deeper into his hands with every shake.

"Clean that bloody mess up! You'd better get all that glass up. If one of my boys comes up with a shard in his foot I'll be callin' the bloody morgue instead, you believe it. No one would miss you, remember that."

He gave Vyvyan's neck one more shove before storming out of the room. Vyvyan struggled to keep his bleeding, aching hands from shaking, keep from crying out of pain as he slowly, agonizingly, got up the larger pieces of glass. He'd need to sweep the rest. That would be a real treat, holding that splintered broom handle with his hands already cut to ribbons. The shards in his hands were small enough, he wasn't even sure he could get all of it out. But he didn't have time to worry about that at the moment. He had to get the job done before Lawson returned, or-

'No.'

The thought came suddenly, stopped him short.

'No, I don't. I don't have to do anything that crazy fucker says. He's done? _I'm_ fucking done.'

He collected himself a moment, took a deep breath, and found the decision brought significant peace of mind. He was nobody's dog - and nobody's friend. He stood, dropping the glass shards he was holding and headed upstairs without looking back.

*****

_Vyvyan dropped carefully out of his bedroom window and slinked into the night. He'd learned his lesson. He'd be far more cautious from now on. Fuck the Lawsons, and double-fuck Angus fucking Moore, he'd do better on his own. He had done before, he would do again. He hiked the pack of his meager belongings higher on his back, trying not to wince at the pain in his hands, and headed off towards freedom._


End file.
